


Ghouls and Cupids

by LostinFic



Series: Mercier x Betty oneshots [4]
Category: A Passionate Woman (TV), Spies of Warsaw (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Halloween, Halloween Costumes, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, broomstick fencing, stupid ex-boyfriend getting punched on the nose, swearing in Polish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-22
Updated: 2016-10-22
Packaged: 2018-08-24 00:55:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8349841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LostinFic/pseuds/LostinFic
Summary: Modern day AU. A Halloween party, accidentally matching costumes and a best friend playing matchmaker.





	

**Author's Note:**

> CW: attempted assault  
> for Fall Fic Fest week 3 prompt: Indoor fall activities (a Halloween party counts, right? It’s indoor.)
> 
> Inspired by @captaingrahamcr ‘s prompt “coming up with idea for pair costumes they could go as”. I took some liberties… hope you’ll like it anyway.
> 
> Charlotte is an OC from Perversions Délicates that I decided to bring back because I love her, but no need to have read that fic.

Betty and Charlotte stood in front of the bathroom mirror, singing along to the  _Rocky Horror Picture Show_  soundtrack. Betty struggled to style her hair in victory rolls. A golden brown curl unravelled on her forehead and she blew it away.  Charlotte was painting fish scales on her cheeks and forehead, the bright blue makeup popped against her black skin.

“You always dress in a 1950s costume,” Charlotte commented.

Betty rolled her eyes. “Not  _always_. Only the once.”

“Twice: at Helen’s birthday.”

“Oh, right.”

“And in fifth grade.”

“That doesn’t count, it was a play.” Betty stopped fussing with her hair and looked down at her retro yellow dress. “It’s a rubbish costume, innit? It’s barely one, really. Maybe I shouldn’t go.”

“Nonsense. I’m not going alone.”

“Your girlfriend will be there.”

“Exactly, I don’t want to be alone with her,” Charlotte joked, nudging her with her shoulder. “If you’re not having fun I promise we can come back and watch  _The Corpse Bride_  instead, okay?”

Betty sat on the toilet seat and rewatched the victory roll tutorial on her mobile. It was her first proper night out in two months, since breaking up with “the arsehole formerly known as Craze” as Charlotte insisted on calling him. Well, breaking up was putting it nicely: he’d cheated on her one too many times, and she’d stopped believing his apologies. She had no intentions of hooking up with anyone at the Halloween party, but she still wanted to look nice.

The video tutorial ended, and Betty gave the hairstyle another try. This time she succeeded. She pinned the rolls in place and added a generous amount of hair spray. The rest of her hair was curled by Charlotte while Betty applied a coat of bright red lipstick. With a vintage necklace and earrings, it looked more like a costume.

“Give us a twirl,” Charlotte said.

Betty complied and giggled, loving the way the dress lifted up around her.

“It’s good to see you smile, Bets.”

“Thanks, I know I’ve been a right old bore lately.” Betty bit her thumbnail but remembered her fresh nail polish.

“You’re making it up to me tonight. Now help me with my tail, will you.”

Betty held the shimmering mermaid tail while Charlotte stepped in it, then pulled it up her legs and zipped it.

“You look fantastic!” Betty clapped her hands. “But what’re you going to do when you need to pee?”

“Uh… I’ll hold it in?”

Charlotte braided her blond ringlets with strings of pearls. Meanwhile, Betty finished dressing up with bobby socks and saddle shoes.

They waited in the crisp autumn air for the black cab to arrive. Charlotte pulled a flask out of her seashell handbag. She didn’t offer Betty a sip, knowing her friend would refuse. As they neared the party venue, the music grew louder, and Betty wished she’d had a sip of rum after all. People in all sorts of costume— ranging from the Queen to the Eiffel Tower not to mention “sexy” variations of every profession and Disney princess imaginable— crowded the pavement in front of the bar.

Charlotte texted her girlfriend to find her in the crowd. They spotted her waving from the opposite street corner. Even though Betty had only met her once before, Gabrielle kissed her cheeks— it was a French thing, she reckoned. Gabrielle worked in an antique store on Portobello road which is where Betty had found the vintage jewelry to go with her costume.

“After you left, I found something else for you.” She pinned a Women’s army corps medal from the Second World War to Betty’s dress. “Oh, it’s absolutely perfect!”

“Ta. And your costume is…?”

“Frida Kahlo.” She had pink flowers tucked in an updo, a unibrow penciled in and a paint-splattered smock.

Betty smiled as though she recognized the name.

“Let’s go in,” Charlotte said, rubbing up and down her arms.

“Can you wait one minute?” Gabrielle asked, putting her arms around her girlfriend to warm her. “I dragged my brother along. He’s parking the car.”

Not long after, Betty saw a lean man with soft curls walk towards them. He was wearing a soldier costume: sand-coloured trousers, shirt and tie with a khaki jacket. Although Betty was no expert, she’d seen enough movies set in the 40’s to recognize it as a World War two uniform. He looked a bit grumpy, but forced a smile as he approached them.

“This is too perfect,” Gabrielle exclaimed, nudging him towards Betty. “This dashing soldier is my brother, Jean-François.”

A more genuine smile appeared on his lips as he took in Betty’s matching costume.

“Look at you two, you’re beautiful,” Charlotte said.

Betty glared at her, realizing her friends were playing matchmakers. It’s not that Gabrielle’s brother was unattractive, but Betty hated this kind of surprises. Most of all, she was embarrassed.

As they queued to get in the party, she felt the need to insist she didn’t know he would be dressed like that. She didn’t want to look like she’d known about it all along and found a costume to match the one of her no doubt reluctant “date”.  

“I didn’t know myself until this morning,” he replied. “I have to say I am rather fond of the 1950’s look.”  

He looked up and down Betty’s costume, and she blushed. Playing his part, he offered her his arm, escorting her inside the club. However, the pleasant sensation his attention had arisen in her didn’t last as Betty remembered how fast she’d fallen for Craze for the same reason.

She let go of his arm.

Fake spider webs and glow-in-the-dark skeletons hung from the ceiling. The place was packed and already hot. Gabrielle and Charlotte immediately headed for the dance floor, leaving Betty and Jean-François in an awkward silence. After a moment, he said something to her but she didn’t hear him over the music.

“What?”

He leaned down closer to her. “What do you do? What’s your job?”

“I’m a florist.”

“What?”

“Florist. I work in a flower shop.” She mimed putting together a bouquet which was utterly unhelpful.

He gave her a blank stare then nodded. He hadn’t understand. Her throat would be sore tomorrow if they had to keep up the small talk. He looked at his watch then scanned the crowd, for a pretty girl, she imagined.

Betty rose on her toes and tapped his arm to get his attention. “You don’t have to stay with me, you know.”

“A good soldier never leaves his post.” He saluted her.

She knew he was joking, but it made her feel like a duty imposed on him by Charlotte and Gabrielle.

“Can I offer you a drink?” he asked, he mimed drinking.

She shook her head. He buried his hands in his pockets and shuffled on his feet. She winced at her own impoliteness. The poor sod was dying for an excuse to get away from her. “I don’t really drink alcohol,” she added. She couldn’t be sure he heard her.

The mass of people dancing and drinking soon turned the club into a sauna. Jean-François loosened his tie and opened his collar. Betty followed each movement of his slender fingers around his neck. It shouldn’t be this attractive.

Two months since she’d left Craze also meant two months since she’d been intimate with a man. For all his shortcomings and vices, her ex-boyfriend was a generous lover. She missed that, if nothing else about him.

Jean-François stroke the nape of his neck. Her mouth went dry. She pulled him closer to talk in his ear: “We need to stay hydrated. Something non-alcoholic?”

She mimed drinking, and he nodded enthusiastically.

Betty tried to distract herself from her thoughts by digging in her pockets for money, but Jean-François headed for the bar before she could give it to him to pay for the drink. Her thoughts returned to Craze. It had been more than two months actually; as her suspicions about Craze’s infidelity increased, experiencing pleasure with him became rarer. Yet, she’d kept on having sex whenever he wanted for fear he might leave her if she stopped.  In retrospect, maybe it would have been better if he’d left her instead of letting their miserable cohabitation and hurtful relationship drag on. Betty blinked back tears; this party was off to a bad start.

She reminded herself it wasn’t all bad. If it weren’t for Craze, she’d still be in Leeds, with Donald, and a kid probably. She would never have moved to London and found a job she loved. Then again, it’s because of that job she’d enrolled in university; Craze had started sleeping around during her night classes.

Jean-François came back, and she smiled despite her sadness at the colourful beverage he bought for her. He bent down to speak close to her ear and she caught a whiff of his cologne mixed with maraschino cherries.

“I asked for something sweet,” he said. His breath tickled her neck.

Betty picked up the little umbrella in her drink, suck its tip clean and tucked it in her hair. He gave her a thumb up.

Unfortunately, the awkwardness returned. Jean-François removed his jacket and brought it to the coat check, he came back, rolling up his shirt sleeves.

“I feel out of place,” he confessed. “I am older than everyone here.”

He wasn’t that old, in his late thirties maybe, but he wasn’t wrong about the rather young crowd. Betty herself felt a bit too old, but then again she had always had a hard time fitting in with people her age.

The DJ started playing a mashup of electroswing covers. She simply could not resist moving her feet and shoulders to a sped-up version of  _In the Mood_. She spotted Charlotte in the dancing crowd, and her friend waved her over. Betty exchanged a glance with Jean-François, he shrugged. She decided then she wouldn’t let Craze ruin another night for her. She downed the last of her beverage, grimacing at a mouthful of grenadine, and joined her friends on the dance floor. Charlotte hugged her and they started dancing something that vaguely resembled jitterbugging.

Jean-François followed not long after. He looked adorably awkward, stiffly swaying on his feet. Gabrielle took hold of his hand, encouraging him to move more.

“Remember Nana’s lessons?” she said.

He followed his sister’s dance steps. It seemed to come back to him and soon he was leading her.

After a while, they switched partners. At Gabrielle’s behest no doubt, he took Betty’s hand and pulled her towards him. His hand rested on her back, wide and steady. Betty tried to follow his feet, she was a bit clumsy and kept apologizing. He just smiled at her every time and she stopped worrying, especially when he got mixed up in his own dance steps. They let the music guide them closer and closer. He had both hands on her waist now. She wished the DJ would switch to one of those bawdy songs so she could press her body against his.

Charlotte tapped Betty’s shoulder. She pointed at her tail then at the corridor leading to the bathroom.  _Not now_. But she couldn’t leave her best friend in trouble. Betty smiled apologetically to Jean-François.

Decibels decreased as they walked towards the end of the corridor to the handicap stall. A bloke whistled when they both entered, but they ignored him.

“Couldn’t you have asked Gabrielle?”

“It’s embarrassing.”

Betty rolled her eyes as she pulled the tail down her friend’s legs. The heat and sweat made it stick even more to her skin. Betty giggled remembering that episode of  _F.R.I.E.N.D.S._  with Ross in the leather pants.

“Maybe we should try talc powder,” Charlotte said, remembering it too.

Betty turned around and covered her ears while her friend did her business.

After, they both fixed their hair and makeup, ran down by the humidity.

“I think Jean-François likes you,” Charlotte said.

“Be honest, did you set this up?”

“Maybe. It started as a joke—“

“Thanks,” she deadpanned.

“No, not like that. But the more Gaby and I talked about it and thought about it, the more you two seemed perfect for one another. Honestly. I’ll let you get to know him, but I call dibs on being the godmother of your first child.”

Betty slapped her arm playfully, but Charlotte’s words made her curious.

The bar thrummed to a different beat now, from electroswing to R&B. On the way back to the dance floor, Betty spotted a familiar face. A familiar face snogging an unknown one. All of Betty’s sadness and humiliation resurfaced at once. A lump formed in her throat, and her cheeks heated up. Jealousy spiked cold and sharp in her guts.  Charlotte tugged on her arm, but then she saw it too: Craze kissing another girl against the wall.

“I need some air,” Betty said.

“Do you want me to come with you?”

Betty shook her head. They had been friends long enough that Charlotte knew she needed some space. She walked Betty to the back terrace and left her there.

A dozen crooked table filled the patio, illuminated by strings of luminous plastic skulls. Betty wiped a chair and sat at a table on the side. She took deep breaths to expel the pain. She knew Craze had cheated on her, but she’d never actually seen him with another girl. She clenched her fists, nails digging in her palms. She hated herself for letting this get to her. She looked up to ward off the tears, but hearing her name made her blink.

“Betty, I thought I’d seen you.” Craze sat next to her, smiling. “I’ve missed you, love.”

“You have?”

“Of course, it’s not the same without you.”

“Then why did I just see you snogging someone?” Her voice didn’t come out as strong as she’d wish, merely a pathetic string of words with no backbone to it.

“That girl’s nothing, I swear. When I miss you, I do crazy things, you know that. I go mad with longing.”

He grabbed her hands but she wrenched them out of his hold.

“That doesn’t even make sense,” she mumbled.

“Let me kiss those worry lines away.”

He pursed his lips, but she pushed him off.

“You know you love me,” he insisted. “Let’s go back my place— our place, I’ll make it all up to you.”

She refused to listen to him, but he grabbed her arms, so tight she couldn’t free herself. His face turned red, his breath reeked of alcohol.

“It’s Charlotte who put ideas in your head—”

“Don’t talk about her like that! Leave me alone!”

“You heard her.” Jean-François was standing beside them, glaring at Craze who released her wrists.

“Fuck off, mate.”

“No.”

“What you gonna do, skinny boy?”

Jean-François ignored the insult and looked at Betty. He was stoic, relaxed even, but his eyes were intent on her: one sign or word from her and he’d get rid of Craze.

“I’m okay. Craze, leave please. And don’t ever talk to me again.”

“C’mon, love. I’m—”

Jean-François yanked him back by his collar.

“Are you deaf?”

“All right, all right. I’m going.”

He walked away, and Jean-François turned to Betty, eyebrows drawn in concern.

“How are—”

“Look out!”

Craze was charging towards them. Jean-François caught a witch’s broom, held it up like a sword. Craze crashed into the brush. It knocked the breath out of him. He staggered backwards and collapsed on a group of people.

“Fencing,” Jean-François told Betty with a smirk. He dropped the broom and picked up Craze by his shirt. “Do I need to kick you out of here?”

“ _Skurwielu_ ,” he muttered in his native Polish.

“ _Pierdolę cię_ ,” Jean-François replied.

Craze dusted off his shirt and trousers. His face was red with anger whereas Jean-François seemed more amused than anything else.

“We’re not done, mate.”

“I think we are.”

“And you! Fucking bitch,” he yelled at Betty with a threatening finger.

 Hatred flared in her, not a hint of love or longing. Nothing but anger and contempt for this man who had broken her heart too many times. When he opened his mouth to speak to her again, she punched him square on the nose.

She winced and cradled her fist. “Oh, fuck, that hurts.”

Jean-François laughed as Craze just stared, stunned by what had happened. At last, her ex-boyfriend scampered off.

Jean-François took her hand, gently rubbing his thumb over her knuckles. She wished he would kiss it like he had earlier. He raised it a little, pursed his lips, but then let it go.

“Scared of me, are you?” she teased. The rush of adrenaline boosted her confidence and made her flirty.

He laughed again, and the lines at the corners of his eyes was the most endearing thing she’d ever seen.

“I wouldn’t mind, you know.”

He took her hand again and pressed his lips to the back of it. “I like a girl with a good right hook.”

“Don’t get used to it.” She sighed. “He’s my ex. He was nice to me before… or I was a fool.”

He rubbed her shoulder with a sympathetic smile, as though apologizing for his whole gender. “Would you like me to take you home?”

“What about the party?”

“I don’t care. It’s as you wish.”

“Yeah, I’d rather leave, don’t wanna run into him again.”

He insisted on getting the car and picking her up in front of the club, but she refused, loath to stay alone on the sidewalk. Ever the persistent gentleman, he opened the car door for her. Boldness fazed out of her, replaced by fatigue. They spent the ride in silence, except for giving him directions to her flat.

About halfway there, she received a text from Charlotte: “Where are you?”

“Got ugly with Craze”

“:("

"JF taking me home"

"Yeeesss <3"

Charlotte’s reaction made Betty wonder if Jean-François expected something from her. Had he meant something else, something more, by “taking her home”? Her stomach instantly tied into a knot. She was thankful he’d helped her get rid of Craze and for the ride, but she wasn’t ready for more. Not now. She felt like one of those dead leaves on the ground: thin and brittle, shaken by the slightest breeze.

In front of her flat, he killed the engine and unfastened his seat belt.

“What are you doing?”

“I should come in with you,” he said.

“I’m fine. No need to. I, er, another time?”

He hesitated, fingers poised on the door handle. “Wouldn’t you like some company? After all that…”

“Thank you for what you did, and for the ride. I appreciate it… but I don’t like you trying to take advantage while I’m vulnerable. When you asked to take me home, I didn’t mean—”

“Oh, no, no. My sister texted me.” He showed her his phone, but the conversation was in French. “She says Charlotte wants me to stay with you until they arrive… I didn’t want to make it sound like I would be babysitting you.”

“Okay.”

“Yes? You won’t punch me?”

“Not if you behave.”

Once inside the small flat, Betty relieved her sore feet from her shoes and put the kettle on. Only the overhead stove lamp lighted the room. Jean-François sat at the scratched wooden table and took the cup of tea Betty had made for him.

“So, you speak Polish?” she said before he could ask about her ex-boyfriend.

He talked about his stay in Warsaw, where he’d worked for the French embassy, much like he did in London. She wanted to know more about him, she really did, but her mind kept drifting off to Craze and what he’d said. Perhaps, Jean-François noticed because he changed the subject to her own work. He asked question after question. She told him about Mrs. Gershwin, the owner, she wanted to retire and leave Betty in charge of the flower shop. In order to do that, Betty attended night classes at a business school: accounting, marketing, organizational behaviour… She knew Jean-François was only trying to distract her from her bleak thoughts, but it was working. She found herself cheering up and gushing about her favourite flowers and customers.

“Delivering isn’t really part of my job description anymore, but I just love seeing how happy people are to receive flowers. And weddings!”

“Do you have pictures?”

“Really? You’re interested?”

“I am.”

She had a whole album. While getting it from her room, she texted Charlotte: “Take your time to come back. No hurry.”

Betty and Jean-François settled on the couch to look at her photo album together. She showed him only the arrangements she was the most proud of. With each page turned, she became aware of his shoulder, then his arm rubbing against her. She became flustered and babbled too much. Time to let him do the talking.

“Gabrielle said something about dance lessons you had?”

“Yeah, when I was young.”

“That a French thing?”

He laughed. “No. It was my mother’s thing. She made a deal with my father: she knew he would try to rope me into a military career— which he did— and she allowed it as long as she could give me a cultural, artistic education. So, dance lessons and violin and painting. We went to classical music concerts, museums, libraries… of course, Gabrielle always wanted to follow.”

“Sounds lovely.”

He shrugged. “I appreciate it now, but as a young boy, I was more interested in playing football with my friends.”

They talked easily. Everything about him fascinated Betty. It was amazing to discover an entirely new person, and to find all these things they had in common. In such moments, one can truly appreciate how each human being is unique. He was like no one she’d ever met.  There was something so chivalresque about his enjoyment of fencing and the work he did in developing countries.

Jean-François rested his arm on the back of the sofa, and she turned, legs crossed, to face him. In her peripheral vision, she noticed his fingers plucking invisible specks off the upholstery, inching closer to her shoulder.

“What?” he asked, and she realized she’d been staring at him with a daft smile.

“I didn’t think they still made men like you.”

“Maybe I really am from the 1950s.”

“A vintage model.”

“Is that a euphemism for old?”

She laughed, shaking her head.

“Betty.”

“Hmm?”

“I’m trying very hard to behave right now.”

She broke eye contact, blushing. 

She hated herself for ruining the moment, but reasoned it was for the best. She’d fallen too hard, too fast for Craze and look where that had gotten her. She didn’t know this Jean-François, not really. The problem was that once Betty let her thoughts wander in that direction, she couldn’t reign them in. She scooted away from him as subtly as possible.

“Sorry, I don’t mean to be a tease. S’just…” She hesitated, scared to cross the line between explaining and oversharing.

“It’s okay. I saw your ex. You don’t need to explain.”

 

It’s only the next morning that Betty thought of all the sexy, flirty things she could have replied to that “I’m trying to behave”. Ironically, the French have a phrase for that:  _esprit d’escalier_.

As she made coffee, her head throbbed and her stomach rolled, hungover from a cocktail of emotions. She cracked opened the window above the sink to let in some fresh air. She slipped on a cardigan and watched robins chase each other in the grey sky.

“How are you feeling?” Charlotte asked upon entering the kitchen.

Betty shrugged and poured a mug of coffee for her friend. “Sorry you had to leave the party because of me.”

“Not you— the arsehole formerly known as Craze. Anyway the night was already ruined by some wanker who saw Gaby and I kiss and kept insisting we have a threesome.”

“Again?”

Charlotte rolled her eyes and sipped her coffee. “So what happened anyway?”

Betty recounted the encounter with her ex-boyfriend. Charlotte called him every mean name possible and then some. She cheered when told about the broom and the punch.

“I was right upset when I saw him kiss that girl,” Betty said, “but now I’m really over him.”

“And Jean-François?”

Betty bit her lower lip. “… I’d rather be under him?”

Charlotte burst out laughing.

“Oh, Lottie, he’s too good to be true.”

“He’s not too good for you.”

It’s not what she’d said but her friend knew that’s what she’d meant. Betty put her feet up on the chair and bit her thumbnail. She was just a shop girl from Leeds and he had all that fancy upbringing and education.

“Tell me one bad thing about him.”

“He’s French.”

Betty clapped her friend’s arm. “I’m serious.”

“All right. He’s divorced.”

“Children?”

“Don’t think so.”

 

In the afternoon, on the bus to work, Betty thought about what she could have said to both Jean-François and Craze, and even to Donald. Replies to conversation that happened months and years ago. A futile exercise, but learning to assert herself was long term project. Another commuter gave her a strange look, and she realized she’d been making faces along with the conversations in her head.

Under an awning outside Mrs. Gershwin’s flower shop, seasonal arrangements lined the shelves: sunflowers, black lilies, burgundy carnations, butterscotch chrysanthemums and mini pumpkins wrapped with tartan or jute ribbons. Betty checked on them, rotating the pots and removing dead leaves. She looked at the display a while longer, smiling at its beauty and harmony. Last night, she’d tried to explain to Jean-François this aesthetical satisfaction. It could hardly be put into words. He’d probably thought it was daft.    

Inside, Mrs. Gershwin, dressed as a witch, was on the phone with a customer. They waved at each other, and Betty went to the office at the back— she wasn’t working in the store this afternoon.

Focusing on the shop’s bookkeeping halted Betty’s anxious thoughts and hypothetical conversations. The logic of numbers and sums, the balance of credit and debit, they were more reliable than feelings. Just like she could always count on a plant to grow if given the appropriate soil, the right amount of water and enough sunlight. Beautiful flowers rewarded her efforts. With a person, however, who could tell what ingredients they needed? Often, she worried she’d given too much or not enough. She worried to the point that she forgot to question whether that person was providing what  _she_ needed to grow. Countless nights, she’d stayed awake wondering how to satisfy Craze—  _thinking about boys again._  Betty sighed and dropped her pen.

She left the office and walked into the shop, Mrs. Gershwin was putting together a bouquet.

“I think you should deliver this one,” she said.

She finished wrapping the flowers in kraft paper. Betty grabbed the keys to the shop’s car and went out with a spring in her steps— she loved delivering flowers.

 

The sat nav lead Betty to a posh residential neighbourhood. Behind the door of 806 Murray St, dogs barked after her knock.  The door opened and revealed Jean-François. Even out of his costume, there was something decidedly old-fashioned about him; maybe it was the cable-knit sweater. He seemed unfazed to find her on his doorstep but the same could not be said for her.

“Hello, Betty.”

“Er… I have flowers for— for?” There was no name on the card.

“They are for you. I wanted to see you again.”

“Oh.” She hid her face in her scarf. “You didn’t have to pay for a dozen roses.”

“You said delivering flowers made you I happy. After what happened yesterday, I thought— hoped, it might brighten your day.”

“Oh, it’s brightened all right.”

“Good. I wasn’t sure… ”

It was the first hint of nervousness she saw in him, and she warmed up to him even more. They smiled at each other, big daft smiles, forgetting to say something.

“Would you like to come in?”

Betty hesitated, if only she’d picked something to wear more flattering than old dungarees.

“I’ll behave, I promise,” he added.

“I think I’d rather you didn’t.”

He quirked an eyebrow.

“That sounded a lot better in my head. I didn’t mean like… What Craze did yesterday, it’s not something I’m into. M’not like that.”

“I didn’t think you were.”

“I just meant, if you want to… Oh, I dunno.”

He laughed but it wasn’t mocking. Then he turned serious, not gravely so, but intense, and Betty’s breath caught in her throat.

“Can I do this?” His knuckles brushed against hers.

“Yeah.”

His fingertips tickled her palm, and she threaded their fingers together. She chuckled from nerves, and Jean-François kissed the back of her hand with a smile of his own.

“And can I do this?” His free hand hovered by her cheek, warmth radiating on her skin.

Betty nodded. He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and caressed her jaw. His fingers stopped at her chin.

“What about this?”

Betty swallowed thickly as he brought his face closer to hers.

“Okay.”

“Yes?” he whispered against her lips.

“Yeah.” And she kissed him.

His soft lips pressed to hers, parting and moving slowly. Betty clutched his hand harder, bringing it to her heart. He cupped the back of her neck, deepening the kiss. A movie-ending kind of kiss.

 

Unfortunately, Betty had to get back to work. They kissed once more and he promised to call. Once he’d returned inside his house, Betty had to squeeze her lips shut to stop herself from squealing right there on his porch. This happiness bubbling inside her couldn’t be contained. And as she drove back to the flower shop, she almost burned a red light because her focus was on the kiss rather than the road.

 

“Welcome back, dear,” Mrs. Gershwin said. “I have another delivery for you to do. Same address as the other.”


End file.
